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Ester Ried

<h2 id="id00797" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XV.</h2> <h5 id="id00798">WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE?</h5> Ester stood before her mirror, arranging some disordered braids of hair. She had come up from the dining-room for that purpose. It was just after dinner. The family, with the addition of Mr. Foster, were gathered in the back parlor, whither she was in haste to join them. "How things do conspire to hinder me!" she exclaimed impatiently as one loose hair-pin after another slid softly and silently out of place. "This horrid ribbon doesn't shade with the trimming on my dress either. I wonder what can have become of that blue one?" With a jerk Sadie's "finery-box" was produced, and the contents tumbled over. The methodical and orderly Ester was in nervous haste to get down to that fascinating family group; but the blue ribbon, with the total depravity of all ribbons, remained a silent and indifferent spectator of her trials, snugged back in the corner of a half open drawer. Ester had set her heart on finding it, and the green collar-box came next under inspection, and being impatiently shoved back toward its corner when the quest proved vain, took that opportunity for tumbling over the floor and showering its contents right and left. "What next, I wonder?" Ester muttered, as she stooped to scoop up the disordered mass of collars, ruffles, cuffs, laces, and the like, and with them came, face up, and bright, black letters, scorching into her very soul, the little card with its: "I solemnly agree, as God shall help me." Ester paused in her work, and stood upright with a strange beating at her heart. What did this mean? Was it merely chance that this sentence had so persistently met her eye all this day, put the card where she would? And what was the matter with her anyway? Why should those words have such strange power over her? why had she tried to rid herself of the sight of them? She read each sentence aloud slowly and carefully. "Now," she said decisively, half irritated that she was allowing herself to be hindered, "it is time to put an end to this nonsense. I am sick and tired of feeling as I have of late—these are all very reasonable and proper pledges, at least the most of them are. I believe I'll adopt this card. Yes, I will—that is what has been the trouble with me. I've neglected my duty—rather I have so much care and work at home, that I haven't time to attend to it properly—but here it is different. It is quite time I commenced right in these things. To-night, when I come to my room, I will begin. No, I can not do that either, for Abbie will be with me. Well, the first opportunity then that I have—or no—I'll stop now, this minute, and read a chapter in the Bible and pray; there is nothing like the present moment for keeping a good resolution. I like decision in everything—and, I dare say, Abbie will be very willing to have a quiet talk with Mr. Foster before I come down." And sincerely desirous to be at peace with her newly troubled conscience—and sincerely sure that she was in the right way for securing that peace—Ester closed and locked her door, and sat herself down by the open window in a thoroughly self-satisfied state of mind, to read the Bible and to pray. Poor human heart, so utterly unconscious of its own deep sickness—so willing to plaster over the unhealed wound! Where should she read? She was at all times a random reader of the Bible; but now with this new era it was important that there should be a more definite aim in her reading. She turned the leaves rapidly, eager to find a book which looked inviting for the occasion, and finally seized upon the Gospel of John as entirely proper and appropriate, and industriously commenced: "'In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God.' Now that wretched hair-pin is falling out again, as sure as I live; I don't see what is the matter with my hair to-day. I never had so much trouble with it—'All things were made by him; and without him was not anything made that was made. In him was life: and the life was the light of men.'—There are Mr. and Miss Hastings. I wonder if they are going to call here? I wish they would. I should like to get a nearer view of that trimming around her sack; it is lovely whatever it is.—'And the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.'" Now it was doubtful if it had once occurred to Ester who this glorious "Word" was, or that He had aught to do with her. Certainly the wonderful and gracious truths embodied in these precious verses, truths which had to do with every hour of her life, had not this evening so much as made an entrance into her busy brain; and yet she actually thought herself in the way of getting rid of the troublesome thoughts that had haunted her the days just past. The verses were being read aloud, the thoughts about the troublesome hair and the trimmings on Miss Hastings' sack were suffered to remain thoughts, not to put into words—had they been perhaps even Ester would have noticed the glaring incongruity. As it was she continued her two occupations, reading the verses, thinking the thoughts, until at last she came to a sudden pause, and silence reigned in the room for several minutes; then there flushed over Ester's face a sudden glow, as she realized that she sat, Bible in hand, one corner of the solemnly-worded card marking the verse at which she had paused, and that verse was: "He came unto his own, and his own received him not." And she realized that her thoughts during the silence had been: "Suppose Miss Hastings should call and should inquire for her, and she should go with Aunt Helen to return the call, should she wear mother's black lace shawl with her blue silk dress, or simply the little ruffled cape which matched the dress! She read that last verse over again, with an uncomfortable consciousness that she was not getting on very well; but try as she would, Ester's thoughts seemed resolved not to stay with that first chapter of John—they roved all over New York, visited all the places that she had seen, and a great many that she wanted to see, and that seemed beyond her grasp, going on meantime with the verses, and keeping up a disagreeable undercurrent of disgust. Over those same restless thoughts there came a tap at the door, and Maggie's voice outside. "Miss Ried, Miss Abbie sent me to say that there was company waiting to see you, and if you please would you come down as soon as you could?" Ester sprang up. "Very well," she responded to Maggie. "I'll be down immediately." Then she waited to shut the card into her Bible to keep the place, took a parting peep in the mirror to see that the brown hair and blue ribbon were in order, wondered if it were really the Hastings who called on her, unlocked her door, and made a rapid passage down the stairs—most unpleasantly conscious, however, at that very moment that her intentions of setting herself right had not been carried out, and also that so far as she had gone it had been a failure. Truly, after the lapse of so many years, the light was still shining in darkness. In the parlor, after the other company had departed, Ester found herself the sole companion of Mr. Foster at the further end of the long room. Abbie, half sitting, half kneeling on an ottoman near her father, seemed to be engaged in a very earnest conversation with him, in which her mother occasionally joined, and at which Ralph appeared occasionally to laugh; but what was the subject of debate they at their distance were unable to determine, and at last Mr. Foster turned to his nearest neighbor. "And so, Miss Ester, you manufactured me into a minister at our first meeting?" In view of their nearness to cousinship the ceremony of surname had been promptly discarded by Mr. Foster, but Ester was unable to recover from a sort of awe with which he had at first inspired her, and this opening sentence appeared to be a confusing one, for she flushed deeply and only bowed her answer. "I don't know but it is a most unworthy curiosity on my part," continued Mr. Foster, "but I have an overwhelming desire to know why—or, rather, to know in what respect, I am ministerial. Won't you enlighten me, Miss Ester?" "Why," said Ester, growing still more confused, "I thought—I said—I—No, I mean I heard your talk with that queer old woman, some of it; and some things that you said made me think you must be a minister." "What things, Miss Ester?" "Everything," said Ester desperately. "You talked, you know, about—about religion nearly all the time." A look of absolute pain rested for a moment on Mr. Foster's face, as he said: "Is it possible that your experience with Christian men has been so unfortunate that you believe none but ministers ever converse on that subject?" "I never hear any," Ester answered positively. "But your example as a Christian lady, I trust, is such that it puts to shame your experience among gentlemen?" "Oh but," said Ester, still in great confusion, "I didn't mean to confine my statement to gentlemen. I never hear anything of the sort from ladies." "Not from that dear old friend of ours on the cars?" "Oh yes; she was different from other people too. I thought she had a very queer way of speaking; but then she was old and ignorant. I don't suppose she knew how to talk about any thing else, and she is my one exception." Mr. Foster glanced in the direction of the golden brown head that was still in eager debate at the other end of the room, before he asked his next question. "How is it with your cousin?" "Oh she!" said Ester, brought suddenly and painfully back to all her troublesome thoughts—and then, after a moment's hesitation, taking a quick resolution to probe this matter to its foundation, if it had one. "Mr. Foster, don't you think she is very peculiar?" At which question Mr. Foster laughed, then answered good humoredly: "Do you think me a competent witness in that matter?" "Yes," Ester answered gravely, too thoroughly in earnest to be amused now; "she is entirely different from any person that I ever saw in my life. She don't seem to think about any thing else—at least she thinks more about this matter than any other." "And that is being peculiar?" "Why I think so—unnatural, I mean—unlike other people." "Well, let us see. Do you call it being peculiarly good or peculiarly bad?" "Why," said Ester in great perplexity, "it isn't bad of course. But she—no, she is very good, the best person I ever knew; but it is being like nobody else, and nobody can be like her. Don't you think so?" "I certainly do," he answered with the utmost gravity, and then he laughed again; but presently noting her perplexed look, he grew sober, and spoke with quiet gravity. "I think I understand you, Miss Ester. If you mean, Do I not think Abbie has attained to a rare growth in spirituality for one of her age, I most certainly do; but if you mean, Do I not think it almost impossible for people in general to reach as high a foothold on the rock as she has gained, I certainly do not. I believe it is within the power, and not only that, but it is the blessed privilege, and not only that, but it is the sacred duty of every follower of the cross to cling as close and climb as high as she has." "I don't think so," Ester said, with a decided shake of the head. "It is much easier for some people to be good Christians than it is for others." "Granted—that is, there is a difference of temperament certainly. But do you rank Abbie among those for whom it was naturally easy?" "I think so." This time Mr. Foster's head was very gravely shaken. "If you had known her when I did you would not think so. It was very hard for her to yield. Her natural temperament, her former life, her circle of friends, her home influences were all against her, and yet Christ triumphed." "Yes, but having once decided the matter, it is smooth sailing with her now." "Do you think so? Has Abbie no trials to meet, no battles with Satan to fight, so far as you can discover?" "Only trifles," said Ester, thinking of Aunt Helen and Ralph, but deciding that Abbie had luxuries enough to offset both these anxieties. "I believe you will find that it needs precisely the same help to meet trifles that it does to conquer mountains of difficulty. The difference is in degree not in kind. But I happen to know that some of Abbie's 'trifles' have been very heavy and hard to bear. However, the matter rests just here, Miss Ester. I believe we are all too willing to be conquered, too willing to be martyrs, not willing to reach after and obtain the settled and ever-growing joys of the Christian." Ester was thoroughly ill at ease; all this condemned her—and at last, resolved to escape from this net work of her awakening conscience, she pushed boldly on. "People have different views on this subject as well as on all others. Now Abbie and I do not agree in our opinions. There are things which she thinks right that seem to me quite out of place and improper." "Yes," he said inquiringly, and with the most quiet and courteous air; "would you object to mentioning some of those things?" "Well, as an instance, it seemed to me very queer indeed to hear her and other young ladies speaking in your teachers' prayer-meeting. I never heard of such a thing, at least not among cultivated people." "And you thought it improper?" "Almost—yes, quite—perhaps. At least I should never do it." "Were you at Mrs. Burton's on the evening in which our society met?" This, to Ester's surprise, was her companion's next very-wide-of-the-mark question. She opened her eyes inquiringly; then concluding that he was absent-minded, or else had no reply to make, and was weary of the subject, answered simply and briefly in the affirmative. "I was detained that night. Were there many out?" "Quite a full society Abbie said. The rooms were almost crowded." "Pleasant?" "Oh very. I hardly wished to go as they were strangers to me; but I was very happily disappointed, and enjoyed the evening exceedingly." "Were there reports?" "Very full ones, and Mrs. Burton was particularly interesting. She had forgotten her notes, but gave her reports from memory very beautifully." "Ah, I am sorry for that. It must have destroyed the pleasure of the evening for you." "I don't understand, Mr. Foster." "Why you remarked that you considered it improper for ladies to take part in such matters: and of course what is an impropriety you can not have enjoyed." "Oh that is a very different matter. It was not a prayer-meeting." "I beg pardon. I did not understand. It is only at prayer-meetings that it is improper for ladies to speak. May I ask why?" Ester was growing vexed. "Mr. Foster," she said sharply, "you know that it is quite another thing. There are gentlemen enough present, or ought to be, to do the talking in a prayer-meeting." "There is generally a large proportion of gentlemen at the society. I presume there were those present capable of giving Mrs. Burton's report." "Well I consider a society a very different thing from a gathering in a church." "Ah, then it's the church that is at fault. If that is the case, I should propose holding prayer meetings in private parlors. Would that obviate your difficulty?" "No," said Ester sharply, "not if there were gentlemen present. It is their business to conduct a religious meeting." "Then, after all, it is religion that is at the foundation of this trouble. Pray, Miss Ester, was Mrs. Burton's report irreligious?" "Mr. Foster," said Ester, with flushing cheeks, and in a whirl of vexation, "don't you understand me?" "I think I do, Miss Ester. The question is, do you understand yourself? Let me state the case. You are decidedly not a woman's rights lady. I am decidedly not a woman's rights gentleman—that is, in the general acceptation of that term. You would think, for instance, that Abbie was out of her sphere in the pulpit or pleading a case at the bar. So should I. In fact, there are many public places in which you and I, for what we consider good and sufficient reasons, would not like to see her. But, on the other hand, we both enjoy Mrs. Burton's reports, either verbal or written, as she may choose. We, in company with many other ladies and gentlemen, listen respectfully; we both greatly enjoy hearing Miss Ames sing; we both consider it perfectly proper that she should so entertain us at our social gatherings. At our literary society we have both enjoyed to the utmost Miss Hanley's exquisite recitation from 'Kathrina.' I am sure not a thought of impropriety occurred to either of us. We both enjoyed the familiar talk on the subject for the evening, after the society proper had adjourned. So the question resolves itself into this: It seems that it is pleasant and proper for fifty or more of us to hear Mrs. Burton's report in Mrs. Burton's parlor—to hear ladies sing—to hear ladies recite in their own parlors, or in those of their friends—to converse familiarly on any sensible topic; but the moment the very same company are gathered in our chapel, and Mrs. Burton says, 'Pray for my class,' and Miss Ames says, 'I love Jesus,' and Miss Hanley says, 'The Lord is the strength of my heart, and my portion forever,' it becomes improper. Will you pardon my obtuseness and explain to me the wherefore?" But Ester was not in a mood to explain, if indeed she had aught to say, and she only answered with great decision and emphasis: "I have never been accustomed to it." "No! I think you told me that you were unaccustomed to hearing poetical recitations from young ladies. Does that condemn them?" To which question Ester made no sort of answer, but sat looking confused, ashamed and annoyed all in one. Her companion roused himself from his half reclining attitude on the sofa, and gave her the benefit of a very searching look; then he came to an erect posture and spoke with entire change of tone. "Miss Ester, forgive me if I have seemed severe in my questionings and sarcastic in my replies. I am afraid I have. The subject is one which awakens sarcasm in me. It is so persistently twisted and befogged and misunderstood, some of the very best people seem inclined to make our prayer-meetings into formidable church-meetings, for the purpose of hearing a succession of not very short sermons, rather than a social gathering of Christians, to sympathize with, and pray for and help each other, as I believe the Master intended them to be. But may I say a word to you personally? Are you quite happy as a Christian? Do you find your love growing stronger and your hopes brighter from day to day?" Ester struggled with herself, tore bits of down from the edge of her fan, tried to regain her composure and her voice, but the tender, gentle, yet searching tone, seemed to have probed her very soul—and the eyes that at last were raised to meet his were melting into tears, and the voice which answered him quivered perceptibly. "No, Mr. Foster, I am not happy." "Why? May I ask you? Is the Savior untrue to his promises, or is his professed servant untrue to him?" Ester's heart was giving heavy throbs of pain, and her conscience was whispering loudly, "untrue," "untrue;" but she had made no answer, when Ralph came with brisk step toward where they sat. "Two against one isn't fair play," he said, with a mixture of mischief and vexation in his tone. "Foster, don't shirk; you have taught Abbie, now go and help her fight it out like a man. Come, take yourself over there and get her out of this scrape. I'll take care of Ester; she looks as though she had been to camp-meeting." And Mr. Foster, with a wondering look for Ralph and a troubled one for Ester, moved slowly toward that end of the long parlor where the voices were growing louder, and one of them excited. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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